Irene waited until the line of others had passed from view down the
hillside, taking her hand off of her husband's to tuck a piece of black
hair behind her ear. "It gets like that, this time of year," she amiably
chattered back, while Joles, on the other hand, took a more direct track,
turning back to the helicopter and sitting on the plastic lid of one of the
stretchers, simply asking, "How much do you know?"
There was nothing harsh, or cold, or angry about the question, but its soft, nearly tender simplicity left Henry without a place to start.
"About the-- well-- you mean--" he sputtered.
"I'll try again. Do you know you're a vampire?" Joles asked, leaning forward, his face expressing genuine concern.
"Yes, I--" he stopped himself, again, not quite sure where he was headed with that, and restricted himself to repeating, "Yes," and nodding shortly many times to express something between nervousness and utter frustration.
"Good! Good," Joles sighed, "That skips over the initial period of disbelief, my having to prove it to you, my having to prove to you you're neither dreaming nor hallucinating nor the subject of a horrible joke, and you staring blankly at me for an hour while you try to take it all in." He rattled off the processes as if he'd been through it all numerous times before. He squinted and looked Henry over, briefly. "You're still here, so I'm guessing you figured it out at least by that dawn. Where did you sleep?"
"In a-- in.. oh, jeez," Henry shuffled, rather embarrassed.
Irene smiled and came to take his hand, "Don't worry, Henry, between the two of us, there's probably not much we haven't heard."
Henry looked down at her, somewhat agog when he thought of her as a bloodthirsty creature like himself, but comfortable in her presence, nonetheless. "In a coffin." He muttered.
"In a coffin?" Joles stood up again, smiling a bit, but not laughing, nor sounding very derogatory. "Well, it's been a while since I've heard that one. Though I suppose they grow in these parts, hm?" He peered down over the camp. "Well, whatever you assumed about the sun was probably right. It's quite fatal to our kind. Honestly I didn't think you'd still be around, Henry. Generally the Brujah don't embrace for," he smiled, "'smarts,' as they may call it."
Joles stepped back, noticing that he'd obviously lost the Neonate on that last statement.
"Embrace, verb: to kine (that is to say, mortals), to wrap in ones arms, to hug, a sign of affection. To kindred (that is to say, vampires), to transform a mortal into a kindred by means of a process which is not yours to know at this moment, dear fellow, but which, as you may have guessed, was performed upon YOU." He meandered in a slight circle as he spoke, waving a hand in front of him as if disclaiming to a crowd or lecturing to a classroom. When the final syllable left his mouth, he stood in front of Henry Blake and pointed a finger to his chest.
He tapped his finger there as he continued to speak. "Brujah, noun, a species of vampire; adjective, of or pertaining to said kindred species."
He pulled his hand back and pointed to himself, "Malkavian. Namely, Joles Traveneau."
He fondly placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, "Toreador. Namely, Irene Traveneau. I know. She's VERY lovely. But don't get any ideas," he smiled, chuckling, "She's hopelessly devoted to me, and the last time I shared a lady with another man was many, many years ago."
He lifted his hand, coughing slightly to bring himself on track, and tucked his pinky finger down, leaving three fingers and his thumb extended. He pointed to his index finger, "Nosferatu." To his middle finger, "Ventrue." To his ring finger, "Tremere." To his thumb, "Gangrel, for the purposes that lie before us currently."
Irene gave her husband a small look of disapproval, and he smiled at her for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand. "These species are commonly referred to as clans, but, I supposed, as a fellow man of the natural sciences, you'd approve of the more correct terminology."
"Clans," Henry repeated, trying to roll over the list in his mind... Brujah... Malkavian... Toreador... Ventmere? Nosferangrel?
"Yes, I'm sure you'll get used to them in time. Now. You already know that stakes are not fatal, but fairly detrimental at that. Whatever else you might have heard, crosses, running water, mirrors-- all a bunch of 'hooey,' as they say." He bent at the waist a bit in aquiescence as he get a nudge in the side from his lady, "Alright. Generally 'hooey,'" he admitted. "You catching all this? I know I'm going rather quickly, but I'm hoping that this will take as little time as possible."
Henry nodded quickly, "Of course. Stakes, bad. Fire, worse. Could I-- do you mind if I ask a question?"
Joles looked surprised for a moment. "Of course, not. In fact," he smiled, "If you'd continued to stand there like a bump on a log any longer, I'd have begun to wonder whether the embrace took hold, after all."
Henry opened his mouth, and looked to Irene for a moment as if for guidance, as if she knew what he was about to say and would help him find the words. No such help, however, was forthcoming. "I've got a... a thing. Living inside me. It wants to throw people across operating wards. It wants to bite and scratch people-- people I /care/ about-- and, and, gorge itself on their blood. It wants to scare me half out of my wits, and I have to say it's doing a damned fine job of it. What--" he looked searchingly into the Malkavian's eyes, "What am I supposed to do?" he finished, helplessly.
Joly's friendly and chipper smile faded at the speech. He sighed softly. It had been so long since he'd been without that omnipresent force which Henry was describing, he'd almost gotten used to taking it for granted. But he was young once, too, and had humanity. He remembered it fondly, that age of innocence, and he grew somber at the implications of its loss in him. He began to speak.
"We underestimate the Brujah, sometimes. It's often said in backrooms and whispered in hallways that the Brujah have the least debilitating features of all the species. After all, all Cainites, that is to say, Kindred, feel the Beast. If Brujah feel it a bit more strongly than the rest, are more readily under its sway, what is it to them? They don't wake up to the terror the Nosferatu face in the mirror. They don't become trapped in the objects they love most," he pulled Irene to his side emphatically, and she looked down to the ground with modesty tinted with distress, "and, most importantly in the eyes of most Kindred," he chuckled, trying to break the solemn mood, "'at least they're not all Malkavians.'" He smirked, but the smirk faded again into a somber expression. "Yes, they're underestimated; you, Henry Blake, aren't given enough credit for what your species has to put up with. I don't know if I would have made it this far, were I an embraced of your clan. But as I said, we all have the Beast in us, we all deal with it somehow. Most importantly, don't give it the opportunity to grab you. Shun fire and don't tempt the dawn. Do NOT let yourself go hungry until the last moment. Further, there are many of your species who /do/ make it. I suggest you get in touch with them and speak with them about your concerns, they'll understand it more thoroughly than I would."
Henry tried to question him on the point of feeding, which he, above all, desired to avoid, but the recommendation to speak with his own clanmates took him aback, a bit, and he just nodded.
Joles put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "Do you need me to leave you for a while before I continue?" he asked, concerned, and knowing that neonates sometimes need some time out to go angst.
"No... no, I'll be okay, go on," he urged, wondering what the hell ELSE there could be that he didn't know about, yet.
"Alright, then. The Camarilla," he announced, with the voice Henry recognized very well as the one he always tried to use during mandatory VD lectures, "Is a worldwide organization of Kindred, dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other."
You could have knocked Henry over with a feather. "A WHAT? How many vampires ARE there?"
"Several," Joly replied, deadpan. "You don't think we all of us just decided to up and move to Korea, did you? No, we were banished to this festering shell-crater of a country probably just as unwillingly as you were, if not more so. But the Camarilla is also as hard or harder to say no to than the U.S. army, if you care about continuing to exist in this life."
Henry shook his head in disbelief. "And wherever you go, there you are." He mumbled, a statement that had seemed applicable in his head, prior to its coming out of his mouth. "I mean--"
Joles lifted a hand, "No need, I understand what you mean." He took a deep breath. "And AS a worldwide organization of Kindred dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other, the Camarilla has come up with a little set of six rules, called Traditions, which I shall relate to you NOW in the hopes that you haven't BROKEN any of them, as you seemed to see fit not to stay with me at the Evac Hospital and learn all this there, where this conversation might have been a little warmer and less exposed to the elements. It is for this reason," he proclaimed, "That I've come here after you, as Seneschal of Seoul, second to the Prince of Seoul: to collect you again, and to make sure that the Traditions have been kept intact in this area. And, just so you know, Meg, whom you met earlier, has come here at my side in her capacity of Scourge of Seoul. That is to say, if I find the damage here irreparable, I have full power to authorize her to carry out your execution. Understood?"
Oh, hell. "Um, yes, sir." Henry spat out. Jesus Christ. Jesus Freaking Christ. It was the Treason trial all over again.
"Alright, well, I'm assuming that you haven't met any other vampires, yet. So the traditions of Hospitality and Domain probably won't have come up. Respectively, those simply mean that other kindred will respect you in your home, and you will respect them in theirs. Any problem there?"
Henry shook his head, "Ah, nope."
"Thought not. The traditions of Progeny and Accounting, likewise, should not be an issue for you, as you have not yet even learned how to create childer, that is to say, how to embrace a person. But, for future times, please learn the lesson of your sire, who, while following the tradition of Progeny and not embracing you without the Prince's permission, seems to have forgotten about the tradition of Accounting, or taking CARE of the childer one brings into unlife, and being responsible for their actions. The Sheriff is currently looking into THAT matter."
"He had permission to--" Henry repeated distressedly, feeling incredibly at the whims of a larger force as he imagined some kind of council of vampires coming together to decide whether they wanted to add him to their ranks.
"Yes," Joles nodded, "It was a very long and drawn out process, which I can go into at another time, if you wish, but I suppose what I'm asking you here is have you created any childer or haven't you?"
"Of course not," Henry replied, kind of taken aback once he understood what he was being accused of. He wouldn't wish this on anybody-- not his worst enemy. The Beast gurgled happily and gnawed at the images of hatred Henry roused to mind, and Henry was distracted for a moment as he tried to shove the thing back wherever it came from.
"Good. Then, there's the tradition of Destruction, which means that no kindred should kill another without express permission from somebody who has the authority to give that permission. For example, of course, and not to keep harping on the case, but it'll do for illustration: The Prince of Seoul has power of Destruction over all the Kindred in his Princedom. In your case, the Prince has given ME power of Destruction over YOU, which I shall then lend to Meg, if I see fit. Not to say that you aren't checking out fine, so far, of course." He smiled as kindly as a man can while discussing the possible death of the man he's smiling upon.
Henry nodded, "Right. And, no, I haven't killed anybody."
"You're catching on." Joles smiled kindly, "And last, but not, of course, least, there's the tradition of the Masquerade." On the last word, the Seneschal's smile waned and was replaced by a rather more serious aspect.
'Deception! Unholy deception! Stop this-- this-- this masquerade!' Father Mulcahy's words rung through Henry's head.
"The Masquerade has been the foundation of the Camarilla from its inception. Only by hiding ourselves carefully from human attention can we ever hope to be left in peace. You can imagine that this is the dearest and most closely guarded tradition of them all. Now, tell us, Henry Braymore Blake," Joly drew close, and pointed a wiry finger down at the camp, "Have you revealed your true nature to those NOT of the Blood?"
Henry stared down where the Malkavian pointed. His mind raced. Bloodlust ran rampant as he considered the Father, Father Mulcahy's spite for him, his strange power over him, but was pounded down forcibly back into submission as Joles T. caught Henry's attention with a stern, "Colonel Blake?"
At which point Henry laughed affably, a large grin replacing his fretful expression. "Believe me, Colonel, everything's COMPLETELY under control at the good ol' 4077th."
A crackling hiss sparked up in the darkness, and a voice came over the loudspeaker. "Attention, all personnel. In honor of the return of our own Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, the festivities will adjourn to the mess tent for a witching-hour showing of that 1931 creepy classic, Dracula!"
Joles T. squeezed his eyes shut. Irene flew to his side and put a hand on the back of his neck. The seneschal laughed in a quiet snort. "I see. If this situation were any more 'under control', Colonel Blake, my head might have to follow yours in coming off."
Joly opened his eyes and took one of Irene's hands, squeezing it and looking up at the panic-stricken Brujah. He shook his head and tried to put on a reassuring smile. "Come on. Let's go see what we can't salvage of this situation."
~
There was nothing harsh, or cold, or angry about the question, but its soft, nearly tender simplicity left Henry without a place to start.
"About the-- well-- you mean--" he sputtered.
"I'll try again. Do you know you're a vampire?" Joles asked, leaning forward, his face expressing genuine concern.
"Yes, I--" he stopped himself, again, not quite sure where he was headed with that, and restricted himself to repeating, "Yes," and nodding shortly many times to express something between nervousness and utter frustration.
"Good! Good," Joles sighed, "That skips over the initial period of disbelief, my having to prove it to you, my having to prove to you you're neither dreaming nor hallucinating nor the subject of a horrible joke, and you staring blankly at me for an hour while you try to take it all in." He rattled off the processes as if he'd been through it all numerous times before. He squinted and looked Henry over, briefly. "You're still here, so I'm guessing you figured it out at least by that dawn. Where did you sleep?"
"In a-- in.. oh, jeez," Henry shuffled, rather embarrassed.
Irene smiled and came to take his hand, "Don't worry, Henry, between the two of us, there's probably not much we haven't heard."
Henry looked down at her, somewhat agog when he thought of her as a bloodthirsty creature like himself, but comfortable in her presence, nonetheless. "In a coffin." He muttered.
"In a coffin?" Joles stood up again, smiling a bit, but not laughing, nor sounding very derogatory. "Well, it's been a while since I've heard that one. Though I suppose they grow in these parts, hm?" He peered down over the camp. "Well, whatever you assumed about the sun was probably right. It's quite fatal to our kind. Honestly I didn't think you'd still be around, Henry. Generally the Brujah don't embrace for," he smiled, "'smarts,' as they may call it."
Joles stepped back, noticing that he'd obviously lost the Neonate on that last statement.
"Embrace, verb: to kine (that is to say, mortals), to wrap in ones arms, to hug, a sign of affection. To kindred (that is to say, vampires), to transform a mortal into a kindred by means of a process which is not yours to know at this moment, dear fellow, but which, as you may have guessed, was performed upon YOU." He meandered in a slight circle as he spoke, waving a hand in front of him as if disclaiming to a crowd or lecturing to a classroom. When the final syllable left his mouth, he stood in front of Henry Blake and pointed a finger to his chest.
He tapped his finger there as he continued to speak. "Brujah, noun, a species of vampire; adjective, of or pertaining to said kindred species."
He pulled his hand back and pointed to himself, "Malkavian. Namely, Joles Traveneau."
He fondly placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, "Toreador. Namely, Irene Traveneau. I know. She's VERY lovely. But don't get any ideas," he smiled, chuckling, "She's hopelessly devoted to me, and the last time I shared a lady with another man was many, many years ago."
He lifted his hand, coughing slightly to bring himself on track, and tucked his pinky finger down, leaving three fingers and his thumb extended. He pointed to his index finger, "Nosferatu." To his middle finger, "Ventrue." To his ring finger, "Tremere." To his thumb, "Gangrel, for the purposes that lie before us currently."
Irene gave her husband a small look of disapproval, and he smiled at her for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand. "These species are commonly referred to as clans, but, I supposed, as a fellow man of the natural sciences, you'd approve of the more correct terminology."
"Clans," Henry repeated, trying to roll over the list in his mind... Brujah... Malkavian... Toreador... Ventmere? Nosferangrel?
"Yes, I'm sure you'll get used to them in time. Now. You already know that stakes are not fatal, but fairly detrimental at that. Whatever else you might have heard, crosses, running water, mirrors-- all a bunch of 'hooey,' as they say." He bent at the waist a bit in aquiescence as he get a nudge in the side from his lady, "Alright. Generally 'hooey,'" he admitted. "You catching all this? I know I'm going rather quickly, but I'm hoping that this will take as little time as possible."
Henry nodded quickly, "Of course. Stakes, bad. Fire, worse. Could I-- do you mind if I ask a question?"
Joles looked surprised for a moment. "Of course, not. In fact," he smiled, "If you'd continued to stand there like a bump on a log any longer, I'd have begun to wonder whether the embrace took hold, after all."
Henry opened his mouth, and looked to Irene for a moment as if for guidance, as if she knew what he was about to say and would help him find the words. No such help, however, was forthcoming. "I've got a... a thing. Living inside me. It wants to throw people across operating wards. It wants to bite and scratch people-- people I /care/ about-- and, and, gorge itself on their blood. It wants to scare me half out of my wits, and I have to say it's doing a damned fine job of it. What--" he looked searchingly into the Malkavian's eyes, "What am I supposed to do?" he finished, helplessly.
Joly's friendly and chipper smile faded at the speech. He sighed softly. It had been so long since he'd been without that omnipresent force which Henry was describing, he'd almost gotten used to taking it for granted. But he was young once, too, and had humanity. He remembered it fondly, that age of innocence, and he grew somber at the implications of its loss in him. He began to speak.
"We underestimate the Brujah, sometimes. It's often said in backrooms and whispered in hallways that the Brujah have the least debilitating features of all the species. After all, all Cainites, that is to say, Kindred, feel the Beast. If Brujah feel it a bit more strongly than the rest, are more readily under its sway, what is it to them? They don't wake up to the terror the Nosferatu face in the mirror. They don't become trapped in the objects they love most," he pulled Irene to his side emphatically, and she looked down to the ground with modesty tinted with distress, "and, most importantly in the eyes of most Kindred," he chuckled, trying to break the solemn mood, "'at least they're not all Malkavians.'" He smirked, but the smirk faded again into a somber expression. "Yes, they're underestimated; you, Henry Blake, aren't given enough credit for what your species has to put up with. I don't know if I would have made it this far, were I an embraced of your clan. But as I said, we all have the Beast in us, we all deal with it somehow. Most importantly, don't give it the opportunity to grab you. Shun fire and don't tempt the dawn. Do NOT let yourself go hungry until the last moment. Further, there are many of your species who /do/ make it. I suggest you get in touch with them and speak with them about your concerns, they'll understand it more thoroughly than I would."
Henry tried to question him on the point of feeding, which he, above all, desired to avoid, but the recommendation to speak with his own clanmates took him aback, a bit, and he just nodded.
Joles put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "Do you need me to leave you for a while before I continue?" he asked, concerned, and knowing that neonates sometimes need some time out to go angst.
"No... no, I'll be okay, go on," he urged, wondering what the hell ELSE there could be that he didn't know about, yet.
"Alright, then. The Camarilla," he announced, with the voice Henry recognized very well as the one he always tried to use during mandatory VD lectures, "Is a worldwide organization of Kindred, dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other."
You could have knocked Henry over with a feather. "A WHAT? How many vampires ARE there?"
"Several," Joly replied, deadpan. "You don't think we all of us just decided to up and move to Korea, did you? No, we were banished to this festering shell-crater of a country probably just as unwillingly as you were, if not more so. But the Camarilla is also as hard or harder to say no to than the U.S. army, if you care about continuing to exist in this life."
Henry shook his head in disbelief. "And wherever you go, there you are." He mumbled, a statement that had seemed applicable in his head, prior to its coming out of his mouth. "I mean--"
Joles lifted a hand, "No need, I understand what you mean." He took a deep breath. "And AS a worldwide organization of Kindred dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other, the Camarilla has come up with a little set of six rules, called Traditions, which I shall relate to you NOW in the hopes that you haven't BROKEN any of them, as you seemed to see fit not to stay with me at the Evac Hospital and learn all this there, where this conversation might have been a little warmer and less exposed to the elements. It is for this reason," he proclaimed, "That I've come here after you, as Seneschal of Seoul, second to the Prince of Seoul: to collect you again, and to make sure that the Traditions have been kept intact in this area. And, just so you know, Meg, whom you met earlier, has come here at my side in her capacity of Scourge of Seoul. That is to say, if I find the damage here irreparable, I have full power to authorize her to carry out your execution. Understood?"
Oh, hell. "Um, yes, sir." Henry spat out. Jesus Christ. Jesus Freaking Christ. It was the Treason trial all over again.
"Alright, well, I'm assuming that you haven't met any other vampires, yet. So the traditions of Hospitality and Domain probably won't have come up. Respectively, those simply mean that other kindred will respect you in your home, and you will respect them in theirs. Any problem there?"
Henry shook his head, "Ah, nope."
"Thought not. The traditions of Progeny and Accounting, likewise, should not be an issue for you, as you have not yet even learned how to create childer, that is to say, how to embrace a person. But, for future times, please learn the lesson of your sire, who, while following the tradition of Progeny and not embracing you without the Prince's permission, seems to have forgotten about the tradition of Accounting, or taking CARE of the childer one brings into unlife, and being responsible for their actions. The Sheriff is currently looking into THAT matter."
"He had permission to--" Henry repeated distressedly, feeling incredibly at the whims of a larger force as he imagined some kind of council of vampires coming together to decide whether they wanted to add him to their ranks.
"Yes," Joles nodded, "It was a very long and drawn out process, which I can go into at another time, if you wish, but I suppose what I'm asking you here is have you created any childer or haven't you?"
"Of course not," Henry replied, kind of taken aback once he understood what he was being accused of. He wouldn't wish this on anybody-- not his worst enemy. The Beast gurgled happily and gnawed at the images of hatred Henry roused to mind, and Henry was distracted for a moment as he tried to shove the thing back wherever it came from.
"Good. Then, there's the tradition of Destruction, which means that no kindred should kill another without express permission from somebody who has the authority to give that permission. For example, of course, and not to keep harping on the case, but it'll do for illustration: The Prince of Seoul has power of Destruction over all the Kindred in his Princedom. In your case, the Prince has given ME power of Destruction over YOU, which I shall then lend to Meg, if I see fit. Not to say that you aren't checking out fine, so far, of course." He smiled as kindly as a man can while discussing the possible death of the man he's smiling upon.
Henry nodded, "Right. And, no, I haven't killed anybody."
"You're catching on." Joles smiled kindly, "And last, but not, of course, least, there's the tradition of the Masquerade." On the last word, the Seneschal's smile waned and was replaced by a rather more serious aspect.
'Deception! Unholy deception! Stop this-- this-- this masquerade!' Father Mulcahy's words rung through Henry's head.
"The Masquerade has been the foundation of the Camarilla from its inception. Only by hiding ourselves carefully from human attention can we ever hope to be left in peace. You can imagine that this is the dearest and most closely guarded tradition of them all. Now, tell us, Henry Braymore Blake," Joly drew close, and pointed a wiry finger down at the camp, "Have you revealed your true nature to those NOT of the Blood?"
Henry stared down where the Malkavian pointed. His mind raced. Bloodlust ran rampant as he considered the Father, Father Mulcahy's spite for him, his strange power over him, but was pounded down forcibly back into submission as Joles T. caught Henry's attention with a stern, "Colonel Blake?"
At which point Henry laughed affably, a large grin replacing his fretful expression. "Believe me, Colonel, everything's COMPLETELY under control at the good ol' 4077th."
A crackling hiss sparked up in the darkness, and a voice came over the loudspeaker. "Attention, all personnel. In honor of the return of our own Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, the festivities will adjourn to the mess tent for a witching-hour showing of that 1931 creepy classic, Dracula!"
Joles T. squeezed his eyes shut. Irene flew to his side and put a hand on the back of his neck. The seneschal laughed in a quiet snort. "I see. If this situation were any more 'under control', Colonel Blake, my head might have to follow yours in coming off."
Joly opened his eyes and took one of Irene's hands, squeezing it and looking up at the panic-stricken Brujah. He shook his head and tried to put on a reassuring smile. "Come on. Let's go see what we can't salvage of this situation."
~